Through The Eyes of a Child: A Memoir

By Samantha McKeating

Grab yourself a cup of tea or coffee, perhaps a slice of cake, put your feet up and enjoy a memoir of a child growing up in the Victorian seaside resort of Southport, North West England during the 1950s and 1960s. Through the Eyes of a Child, is a story I'd like to share.

A time when we thought playing in the sand dunes all day was safe, a variety of delicious sugary confectionery (including aniseed balls and sugar mice) were available in exchange for a few 'old' pence and 'penny arrow bars' lurked amongst the contents at the bottom of a satchel. A time which built strengths and conquered weaknesses and, for me, a childhood, which, happy for the most part, encountered an unusual brand of sadness.

In this book, you will find a nostalgic look into life over half a century ago. It is the story of a little girl whose childhood, extraordinary and unique in some ways, may rekindle memories of your own tender years as you identify snippets of similarity. Perhaps you will laugh out loud, maybe even shed a tear, but the intensity with which this book is written will stay with you long after you finish reading.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samantha McKeating
• Release date: Feb 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9780993322389

Samantha McKeating

“SPANGLES” is my second full length novel, a gripping, fast-moving thriller written in three parts. Enter the world of a musician, an Italian fashion designer, the crew of a fifteenth century Caravel and a modern day conclave of thirteen ruthless criminals. All elements of this compelling story are connected by an ancient secret which takes my readers from the luxury hotels of Amsterdam to the Riads of Morocco, the Arabian Desert to the Island of Capri and the intense beauty of Lake Garda to the Sacramonte Caves of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Become a guest with Emily Dutton in a luxurious and dangerous world, integrate into the world of high society and help her survive her father’s cut-throat dynasty and uncover the mystery of Spangles before it’s too late. “Spangles” is available to download as an EBook and in paperback from Amazon, Create Space, Waterstone's and Broadhurst's Bookshop in Southport. “RUBIES” is my previous and debut novel which is available as an EBook and paperback. Immerse yourself on an amazing journey through the back streets of New York City and the palaces of Myanmar in a thrilling quest of fantasy and danger, to fulfil the prophecy and legend surrounding the Meng Tuu-Kyi rubies. Join Carrie, Fiona and Monsieur Boesflug as they fight evil forces from a time long forgotten and strive to avoid the wicked inhabitants of a black sedan chasing them across the world. “THROUGH THE EYES OF A CHILD”: Available as an EBook and paperback, inside which you will find a collection of memories, growing up in my Victorian hometown of Southport during the 1950s and 60s. This story is based on a true and honest account of my childhood, unique in my eyes and I hope another compelling read for others. Paperback coming soon. Work in progress is an historical novel: “LIZZIE: A LIFE LIVED”. This novel begins in Ireland during the potato famine. The research for this book spans more than three decades. The photoshoot proved a fantastic day and my personal thanks are extended to Brian Wilcox Photography for his expertise and relentless patience. The heroine of my story, against all odds, retains humour, dignity and human kindness, despite her repulsive past. I hope to release the book in the late spring 2017. “THE THREE BEES” is a children’s farmyard story (age 3-5) available as a Kindle EBook on Amazon. WORLD BOOK DAY 2016: I was invited in to a local school to talk to pupils about writing. A competition was set and the winning entry 'THE CREATURES', by James Charters is now available to purchase as an Ebook and a paperback. My congratulations are extended to James for his exciting and imaginative story and I wish him well for the future. The age range for this book has been estimated between seven and twelve. Next up: a sequel to Spangles: DRAGONFLY ODYSSEY - Michael Dutton is back, dangerous and out for revenge. I am a sister, wife, mother and grandmother and indebted to my family for their love and support.

Book preview

Table of Contents

The Tricycle Incident

The Nun’s School

The Move

Settling In

My New School, My New Friend and a Den

First Holy Communion

Early Days

The Circus

The Beach

The Sweet Shop and Others

Warm Cosy Winters and Feeling Poorly

The New Girl

Fading Memories

Visits and Trips

Daily Life

Christmas and Easter

Dad’s Family

Failure

Dawn of a New Era

Growing Up

The Winter of 1962/1963

Now I’m Twelve

Trivial Pursuits

The Holiday

Dot

Teenage Years

Religion

Life Goes On

A New Time

Time for Change

Bits and Bobs

Summer Days

The Girl on the Bus

The Penultimate Year

The Final Year and New Year’s Eve 1966

Lizzie

Other books

Acknowledgements

About Sam

Chapter 1

The Tricycle Incident

Her fingers gripped the railings tightly and nothing was going to release her grip. An intense defiance registered in her eyes. It left the people standing beside her, watching this display of self-will, in no doubt whatsoever, this little girl did not want to leave! I think that’s how you would describe the scene when I left my nursery school. Utter dismay gripped me, knowing I would never return once I went beyond those railings and I clutched the bars so tight, the flaking paint came off onto my small, sweaty palms and I hollered and screamed. Mum tried desperately to prise open the grip which would release me into her arms and thereby remove me from the premises. I’m sure, this, my earliest memory of total devastation at leaving somewhere I loved, may in some way have prepared me for the rest of my life and I wholeheartedly believe this single incident wrote my first mark in the book of life.

We lived in a council house in a cul-de-sac at the bottom of which was a kind of roundabout. There was a pillar at the side of the front door and next to it a low wall where I could sit and dangle my legs watching the world go by and listening to the woman next door shouting her boys in for dinner. Although we now refer to dinner as our evening meal, in those days it was breakfast, dinner and tea, and if you were exceptionally lucky, there might be supper too. A pillar supporting a canopy over the front door ensured we didn’t get wet when it rained.

I found it amazing even at the tender age of five to discover when going outside to the loo, I didn’t get wet if it was raining, as the back of the property, leading to the outhouses was completely covered in. There were two steep steps leading up to the back door and I constantly had a lump as large as a free-range egg on my forehead where I had missed my footing and bashed my temple on the next step up. I would howl again, feeling skirts wafting around me while poor Mum, who suffered the stress of an accident-prone child in silence, tried to recover me with a tea-towel, wrung out in ice-cold water and pressed onto the aforesaid ‘bump’. Many years later, I was to discover with horrified eyes the same kind of ‘obtrusion’ on one of my own off-spring, when he rode his bicycle so fiercely, it collided with the second lamp-post, sending him over the handlebars into the post. The bike went careering off on its own merry way and he nutted the post with such velocity that the ‘egg’ must have sprouted immediately. To see the phenomenon first hand is quite frightening.

* * * * *

The day out to Botanic Gardens will surely live in my sister’s memory to her dying day. She is eight and a half years older than me (the ‘half’ was important to her then; now she affectionately tries to get away with ‘only eight dear’!). Recalling the actual receipt of this wonderful piece of technology is nigh on impossible and I have some difficulty remembering its colour. Was it pillar-box red, or was it ocean blue? Having ownership of a second-hand tricycle was no mean feat in those days, especially in our street. Dot was commanded to spend the afternoon entertaining me by way of a tricycle trip to the local park which boasted the fastest swings in the world. They were the type you sat ‘in’ with their own back support and a chain which came around the front and fastened you in securely, ready for the squeals of delight uttered when someone pushed. I learnt quickly how to make the swing go higher and higher. Years later, in another area, another era, I learned, on a ‘sit-on’ type, how to force the piece of wood on which I balanced on the edge, to extreme heights and ‘leap’ off into the sandy basin far below. When the ‘boys’ came out to play, it became even more dare-devilish, as one had to make the piece of wood on which you were perched, travel 360 degrees, forcing it over the support frame – the very thought terrifies me now, but then it was such an exhilarating experience, even under the most hazardous conditions of missing and crashing down with the chain twisted, so that you were lop-sided, completely off balance and once more crashed to the ground below with an almighty thud. Of course, I was always the one who pushed myself to achieve the goal, and therefore the one who sustained the most injuries. Poor Mum, who often watched from the back bedroom window, must have recoiled in horror every time I announced I was going to the ‘rec’. Until the council installed a nine-foot fence around the recreation ground’s perimeter, all I had to do was open the garden gate and I was free.

Anyway, back to the tricycle. Here we were, me, Dot and my own, brand new, ‘second-hand’ tricycle. I always looked upon acquisitions as ‘brand new’, even if they were antiques, because it had only just come into my possession, therefore to me, it was brand new. We set off to Botanic Gardens. Oh, I forgot to mention this gorgeous three-wheeled contraption also boasted a wonderful shrill produced from its shiny new bell (the bell was brand new), and a little bag at the back of the seat, into which I crammed a whole afternoon’s goodies. These probably consisted of jam sandwiches spread with margarine, crusts still on and cut into squares. I had to eat crusts because Mum said they’d make my hair curl and I longed for curly hair. There were two plastic beakers to catch water from the drinking fountain at the park. Everyone else bent down beneath the tap and sucked the water out, but Mum said we weren’t to do that because we’d catch the most awful disease and die.

And so, along the road we went, Dot trying her hardest not to jerk me backwards when I gathered speed, for she’d had strict instructions not to let go of my reins! Under these circumstances, it was a long way to the park and once opposite this wonder world, we had to cross a busy main road. Dot was sensible and Mum had no doubts about her ability to ‘cope’ with me, but she had underestimated the power of a strong-willed three-year-old in a temper tantrum, on her first trip out on a new trike! My aunt (a real one) who is now the spritely age of one hundred and one, and has her card from the Queen, still flinches when one of these appalling scenes are mentioned, but always adds, ‘But you turned out alright in the end dear!’, which is probably debated at some length by other members of the family.

Furiously ringing the bell, I had gathered up considerable speed along the pavement and poor Dot was out of breath trying to keep up. It hadn’t taken me long to discover I could control the direction by manoeuvring the handlebars with one hand, whilst laughing uncontrollably, listening to the continuous sound of the bell ringing. Hurtling along, faster and faster with poor Dot at the back, now running hell for leather and trying to prevent herself pulling me off. Of course, this circus of fun almost ended in tragedy, as I careered off the pavement into the middle of the road, almost causing a severe pile-up. Drivers coming round the bend in cars braked, swerving to avoid hitting us, applying the most expertise they could muster to bring their vehicles to a stop. But, although we were now opposite the park, and therefore should have been crossing the road in the normal way, this had not been my intention at all. I was having far too much fun speeding along, and of course, wanted to carry on doing just that. Poor Dot was red-faced, totally breathless from trying to keep up with me. Absolutely mortified at the precarious situation she found herself in, she tried to pull me by the handlebars, over to the other side where the park must have offered a safe haven. This plan was not on my itinerary at all and I applied the brakes. I wanted to go back to the other side and continue racing along. The more she pulled, the harder I squeezed the brake handle – and then, not getting my own way, the temper tantrum began and I turned the handlebars, so that the front wheel of the trike was side-on, and could not be pulled. So, there we were in the middle of a main road with traffic held up on both sides, me throwing a screaming fit, determined not to be moved, while poor Dot tried in earnest to rectify what was left of a near disaster while still clutching onto my reins. I think she must have tried to eradicate the memory, as she has no recollection of how we eventually got to the other side, and I too have to admit a total blank after turning the handlebars. She never took me out on the tricycle again.

* * * * * *

Chapter 2

The Nun’s School

Had I known the consequences of leaving the nursery, I never would have relinquished my grip on the railings. For what was to come, was beyond a child’s wildest comprehension. Instead of the lovely cotton dress I wore for nursery, I was ‘contained’ in a heavy gabardine uniform. The building was dismal, so unlike the sunny, pretty flower-clad frontage of the nursery. I remember a dark narrow alleyway leading to the building itself, with a high wall completely surrounding the playground. I say playground loosely as I don’t remember much playing. I seem to only recall dark rainy days shadowing the nine-inch square tiles, constituting the floor area, which was consistently wet and shiny, indicating in my memory, the amount of rain that must have fallen. There was a large brick porch, in the shape of a church doorway and not uncommonly in those days, the school was affiliated to a church. In later years, I wondered why I was sent to that particular school, as it was definitely not the nearest. Mum was a convert to Catholicism and a fervent churchgoer but it would have seemed more likely to send me to a location closer to home.

The school was run by an order of nuns dressed from head to toe in a black full length habit, the wimple pulled over their foreheads down to their eyebrows. They wore long flowing black veils, huge black rosary beads hung down the side of the seemingly billowing skirt and a giant black wooden cross was attached to the bottom of the beads. I confess to feeling a little intimidated, not because they were nuns, but they all seemed elderly and although others found their experience at this school a happy one, I cannot recall a single happy memory the whole time I was there. The inside of the building seemed dark and dank and I wonder if it was heated. If I became wet at playtime, I stayed in wet or damp clothing until I went home. The porch was large, totally unlit and the door into the main building was always closed tight. At playtimes, the outer door was closed behind us as we were ushered out into the playground. However, we soon discovered this door was left unlocked and as many of us as could possibly fit in, squeezed back into the space and spent playtime cramped up, literally like sardines in a tin. When playtime was over, one of the nuns would come and ring a huge hand-held bell. If we were in the porch, it was raining and we had already begun to get wet. The smell of our damp clothing still permeates my nostrils. We stood, boys and girls together, inside that porch with both doors firmly shut, in total blackness. The inner door would clang open and we would be reprimanded for being in there, and shepherded back into the main building. Everyone seemed so tall, large and foreboding and the constant noise of their swishing skirts terrified me. It is entirely possible, my recollection of events would have them turning in their graves if they thought someone spoke of them this way and my sincere apologies to any relatives reading this book, or indeed anyone who has more pleasant memories. However, the eyes of this five-year old child would have much preferred the pretty environment I’d just been prised away from. The rest I must have completely blocked out of my memory, as this is the sum total of my ability to recall events at that school. I remained there for a short time only and have no recollection of anyone taking me, dropping me off, or picking me up. There is just nothing more to be said about that school.

* * * * * *

Chapter 3

The Move

I was five years old. To be truthful, I believe this is where my story truly begins. I have other vague recollections of those early years, but only when photographic evidence is produced. I do recall a browny black box with a shutter, the family ‘camera’. One picture in particular, was a family portrait of Mum, Dad, Dot and me on the leather sofa in the front parlour. How on earth Mum produced the wherewithal for a portrait, a leather sofa or a camera is beyond me. I assume we’d had the leather sofa given to us and were only allowed in that room on special occasions.

It was a beautiful sunny day. My earliest recollection of the day was actually sitting in the huge removal van with Mum and Tina, our black and white cocker spaniel. I could hardly believe this was happening. We were moving from one end of town to the other, quite some distance away. I don’t remember climbing into the van. I just remember sitting there feeling princess-like, so high up, able to see everything and cuddling Tina while we drove along with all the contents of the house we had just left, in the back of the van.

As the removal van approached the town centre, through which it seemed we would travel, I felt intensely enthralled as we began traversing the length of colourful red tarmac which constituted the main thoroughfare of Southport. Lord Street -Victoriana in its most beautiful sense. To the left, stood incredibly classical, affluent looking houses, in a variety of architectural styles, whilst further along, the street proudly presented elegant gardens and glistening fountains. A sunny boulevard, with grand overhead glass canopies completed the front aspect of the wonderful parade of shops lining the right hand side of the street. Intriguing alleyways beckoned alluringly at random intervals providing my imagination with food for exploration the next time we came into town. I loved it.

We passed two huge columned buildings with a tower stretching high up into the sky between them, which I learned later was ‘the Monument’ dedicated to all those who gave their lives during the war years. A large number of pigeons pecked the ground in search of crumbs left behind by people sat on the carefully manicured lawn areas with sandwiches, whilst smaller children licked ice-cream from the centre of wafers. We passed the vast space on the left about half way down the length of this fascinating street, which I was told was the Town Hall, Library and Art Gallery. My head was on a pivot, there was too much to try and take in, and from such a height, it was possible to see more than ever. I soaked the information in as we travelled slowly along the stunning tree-lined hub of my hometown.

The red and cream signature buses of Southport captured my attention and I wondered if they were the mode of transport I would travel to and from my new home. Conductors hung onto poles on the rear platform looking out for any latecomers for the service and if I waved at them, they waved back. The whole scene conjured a magical feast of discovery to my five year old eyes and although I had been on Lord Street many times, never before had I witnessed it with the same emotional intensity.

Leaving the splendour of the town behind, I remember thinking how posh our new domain must be because the main road was tree-lined with grass verges on the approach to our turn-off, beautiful by comparison to my previous address. I will never forget the feeling of knowing I was going to like living there.

The estate was newly built and in fact still under construction. The cul-de-sac where we were to live, was finished and the tarmac laid. Some of the houses were as yet uninhabited. Our house, sporting a brand new shiny red door, was at the head of the cul-de-sac, thereby commanding a view of the entire road. I was glad we had a red door and I think Mum was delighted too. Just before we had turned off the main road, Mum had pointed out a Catholic Church and said that would be the parish church we would attend, and a short distance later, she pointed out a smaller building and said, That’s where you will go to school, and smiled.

The kitchen in our new house was square with a sink underneath the window and a couple of cupboards beneath. There was a range of wall and base cupboards on the opposite wall and a door leading into the hallway. One wall was blank with just a doorway leading to the dining room, and the back door was opposite. Newly constructed, everything was in pristine condition, which I know Mum loved. At that time, there was only Mum, me and Tina. Dad was still at work. Dot was not home from her convent school yet. I was so looking forward to them coming home and seeing it all. Dot and I would make great plans together and have such fun running around and looking at everything. We would choose our bedrooms, although I think I already knew mine would be the small box room. I didn’t mind at all, it already looked warm and cosy. There was a big box in one corner, which I later learned was the rise of the staircase, and over the top a large cupboard, fantastic for storing my toys. Yes, I loved it instantly.

The back garden was still a building-site, but Mum assured me she and Dad would make the garden beautiful. She was already pointing out where this would go and that would go. There were two tall poplar trees, one on either side of the back garden and I could tell Mum didn’t like them. They would have taken a lot of light from the back of the house had they been allowed to remain. The wonderful thing was, the garden was not overlooked. The cul-de-sac backed on to the local recreation park. It had a play area for children with swings and a roundabout and to a five-year old child, the possibilities and magic of such a location were limitless. I was indeed a happy little girl. I remember Dot coming home from school. Tina had begun wagging her tail furiously. She had already sussed out her ‘spot’ which was on the bottom stair, and only relinquished her position momentarily to greet people and ultimately when all members of the household were home. We ran about the place, Dot wanting to